


Noise Reduction

by SincerelyChaos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, Kiltlock Flash Challenge, Kilts, M/M, Meeting at a club, No Explicit Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punklock, Unilock, this is not a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's too much noise in his head and not enough bare skin for him to touch. </p><p>John leans back, breaking the kiss, once again forming words instead of creating friction, and Sherlock wants to tell him that it's counterproductive, that words are a trap and that language is even more insufficient than fucking when it comes to noise reduction and finding release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a part of the Kiltlock Flash Challenge, organised by the one and only jamlockk.
> 
> Before we start I'd like to send some thanks and some love to iriswallpaper and hubblehubblegleeflower for their amazing beta, thoughtful suggestions and all their patience in explaining The English Language to me. My biggest gratitude for discussions and for letting me take part of the knowledge and ideas that you both have as fic writers!

 

 

It had been an easy choice.

Once Sherlock realised that he was not getting his hands on something stronger than vodka that night, his mind had already decided on a new direction. Sharp, contoured eyes met hazy, searching ones. That was all it took. A nod, maintaining eye contact, closing the distance.

It’s almost too easy.

A few steps over a pulsing dance floor. Losing eye contact, finding it again. The hazy eyes of a seemingly misplaced and rather drunk boy are still locked on him. Making his way through the crowd, Sherlock observes the other boy’s movements as they approach each other, meeting halfway. Undoubtedly drunk, but not drunk enough to risk passing out. Fit, the kind of muscles that originate from years of playing sports rather than hours spent in a gym. A hint of tanned legs is visible between the hem of a kilt and the top of the white, traditional stockings that disappear into a pair of military boots. There’s no mistaking his intent as the boy sways clumsily towards Sherlock, ignoring the constant disruption of people bumping into him.

It’s almost too easy, but for once, Sherlock isn’t looking for a challenge.

*

“It was never your intention to come here tonight,” Sherlock observes as they’ve made their way to the side of the dance floor, finding a high table filled with empty glasses.

The boy has a cheap, black button-up shirt tucked into his kilt and is looking questioningly at Sherlock.

“Is that a problem?”

The words are half defiant, half flirtatious and smell a lot like cheap, German beer. A frown, a lifted eyebrow. His hair is so bleached that it almost lacks pigment, leaving it dry, brittle and tousled. It reflects every coloured lamp in the club as the light flash.

“No. Not unless it’s your intention to stay here much longer.”

“Should I take it you don’t enjoy me being here, then?”

It's not really a question - more of a mindless and drunk attempt at flirtation. It's superfluous at this point, but then Sherlock finds that most things are. At least most things that are not designed to be administered straight into the bloodstream and release him from his own cognition.

“Not as much as I’d enjoy it if we both got the hell out of here."

Sherlock can play along for now. It's highly unlikely that the boy in front of him will need more than a few minutes to make up his mind about this. Perhaps even less; his drunk gaze is still firmly set on Sherlock, wandering from eyes smudged by black eyeliner, pausing at the pierced lower lip before continuing to take in all of Sherlock's impatient, trembling body.

For a brief second, he wonders if the boy is drunk and ignorant enough to ascribe the tremor in Sherlock's body simply to a flattering reaction to the proximity between the two of them. If so, Sherlock has no intention of correcting him on that particular assumption. An insignificant detail like that can sometimes turn out to be a deal breaker for some more narrow-minded people, even at a club like this. And that would be an unfortunate development of something that is beginning to look somewhat promising. It's a substitute, yes, but it might be a propitious substitute, judging by the way that fingers have suddenly found their way to Sherlock's hip. They brush against bare skin where his t-shirt has slid up a fraction as Sherlock leaned in to be able to hear the boy over the noise pulsing around them.

“Alright, fair enough. Well, I’m John,” the boy says, distractedly licking his dry lips, unconsciously revealing his already-made decision to  Sherlock.

 _John_. John, who is still wearing garments he must have put on for the Christmas celebration; a celebration he left three hours ago when a (not unexpected) fight broke out and then quickly derailed. Sherlock is, however, fairly certain that the messed up hair is something the boy accomplished on his way to the club, a desperate attempt to make it look like he was more of an eccentric punk than a family boy escaping dinner.

Sherlock turns his head so he doesn't have to see John, desperate to stop observing everything there is to know. Sherlock doesn't want to know anything about him. He doesn't even want him to have a name.

“Well, I’m bored.” Sherlock leans close enough for John to feel his breath against his ear as he speaks.

“I can work with that,” John replies, turning his head until Sherlock's breath is instead ghosting over his parted lips.

*

It’s 2 am as they tumble out onto the street, finally escaping the noise floor of club music and hysterical laughter from the bar.

It won't be anything like the noise reducing buzz of chemicals Sherlock that really needs, and it isn't blood-alcohol levels that would let John erase the memories of yet another ruined family holiday, but it'll have to suffice. It’s simply intoxication of another kind.

Hands once again slip in under Sherlock's t-shirt and John presses him up against the dirty window of a travel agency as soon as they are out of sight of the club.

There's too much noise in his head and not enough bare skin for him to touch. John leans back, breaking the kiss, once again inexplicably forming words instead of creating friction, and Sherlock wants to tell him that it's counterproductive, that words are a trap and that language is even more inadequate than fucking when it comes to noise reduction and finding release.

John is too drunk to remember where they were heading, but it doesn’t matter, because Sherlock is licking into his mouth. John returns the favour and Sherlock lets him; lets him lead and dishevel and take his mouth there on the almost empty street. Sherlock knows that it’s highly unlikely that they'll make it much further anyway.

"Judging by your state of inebriation I doubt we'll get as far as to my flat. Around the next corner-- there's an alley," Sherlock manages, breathing hard, trying to recapture John’s mouth to keep more words from coming out.

"Not fucking in an alley," John manages with his voice muffled as he presses a hand against Sherlock's chest to create some distance between them.

Sherlock could argue with that, but he finds that a more-action based approach is often more effective. He leans down, captures John’s mouth again and rocks his hips against John's. Just as he expects, John falls into the kiss without much resistance, grinding back against him. In less than two minutes Sherlock is able to drag John with him into the alley, crowding him against the concrete wall of the office building and sucking bruises onto his skin, using his hands to adjust the angle of John's head, giving him better access to a tanned neck.

John tries to say something then, somewhere between hands tangling in his almost white strands of hair and teeth nibbling at his lips. He doesn’t, however, because Sherlock stops him by filling his mouth with tongue instead of words. Talking serves no purpose at this stage. He doesn’t want to know more about John, doesn’t want to know him and doesn't want to hear more of the giggle that John had let out at the club when Sherlock’s tongue had tickled him just below his ear.

What Sherlock wants is for this to become more of a mess than his thoughts already are. Wants thrusting, bruised skin and to finally have a surge that will end in release. Simple. Effective.

Sherlock has earned this. He's not someone who's used to anything being easy.

For once, perhaps he could have something that is.

With his pulse thrumming in his ears, Sherlock sinks down to his knees on the wet asphalt, looking up at John. As fingers tangle into Sherlock's inky curls, John's eyes meet his, and Sherlock is suddenly reminded that no matter what he tells himself, there are some things that have never been - and will never be - easy.

 


	2. Chapter 2

There's a gorgeous, dark creature at John's feet, looking up at him, and it shouldn't feel lonely, but it does.

There are some things that you can only hold for so long before they dissolve from the pressure of your hands. And John's hand often attracts beautiful things, but it inevitably crushes them too. John's growing used to start the process of letting something go as soon as it lands in his hands.

He’s given up on wishing that he didn’t break things just by having them.

But there's a boy - his memory is blurry, was it 'Sherlock' he'd said? - with his knees to the rain-wet asphalt and his eyes set on John's, and it will all break, but hopefully John will be post-orgasmic and drunk when it happens.

It’s easier not to give a shit if you’re intoxicated enough.

The world is a bit unfocused, but when long, cold fingers meet the bare skin between his white stockings and the hem of the kilt, he’s once again present, wincing from the icy fingers and the distant, amused look on Sherlock’s face.

The fingers warm up as they work their way up John’s thighs. He lets his head fall back against the concrete wall of the office building behind him, hissing as a pair of hands tugs at his pants, pushing them down until they pool around his boot-clad ankles.

John lifts his head again, fascinated by the sight of Sherlock’s arms disappearing under the kilt, making the whole endeavour look almost decent, but for Sherlock’s position on his knees, in front of John. The fabric obscures how fingers squeeze into the flesh of his arse, and Sherlock’s face reveals nothing as his hands drift over hips and up thighs and then finally closer to--

There’s a rough sensation as the fabric is pulled up, chafing against sensitive skin on his now very erect cock, but it’s instantly forgotten as lips close around the head of it, with no prelude or warning. And forgetting is what this is all about, so it’s actually going splendidly; John is forgetting everything except the numbness of alcohol and the feeling of wet pressure around his cock.

As he opens his eyes, the sight that meets him is almost surreal in the freezing December night. Black-lined eyes looking up at him, lips stretched out around him, tousled black curls falling in Sherlock’s right eye.  The left side of his head is mostly shaved clean, leaving a well-pierced ear exposed and making his neck appear even longer.

It’s the contrast between black and pale, between the warmth around the first inches of his cock and the damp coldness of the air. Opposites that enhance everything until it feels almost real.

John is a gentleman, but something in the way Sherlock regards him, even on his knees, is challenging and demanding. And those grey, transparent eyes actually flutter closed for a brief second as John’s fingers nest into the messy curls, grabbing without pulling. His fingers get stuck in the strands, product and tangles, making it impossible to card through the curls. They’d looked soft to the touch, but they weren’t. Somewhere in John’s disorganised mind, this reminds him of something else, but the thought is obscured by the sensation of Sherlock, taking in more and more of John.

He looks like something he’s most likely not - a working class punk, sober, promiscuous. But his accent gives him away whenever he forgets to tone it down; he’s public school and money, or at least that’s who he once was. Now he’s a junkie, looking for a fix but settling for a shag. He could perhaps have fooled most people, because he doesn’t look the part, but with his medical training, John’s done enough shifts in an A&E in the rougher parts of London to know what causes the kind of tremor that he can see when Sherlock’s hands are not occupied. He’d not been looking for this. This was just a distraction from something else.

John knows an addict when he sees one. But he’d rather spend Christmas Eve fucking with this addict than fighting with the addicts he’s bound to by blood.

In front of him, Sherlock manages to take him in all the way to the hilt, and John hisses out a “fuck”, his head once again falling back as everything intensifies.

It’s rough, deep and fast. John lets one of his hands free from Sherlock’s hair, using it to steady himself against the wall behind him, but the boy in the ragged, black jeans lets out an annoyed grunt, pausing his bobbing. John opens his eyes and his hand finds it way back, understanding without really grasping what the look in the other boy’s face indicates. He takes a firm grip on Sherlock’s head, slowly beginning to fuck his face. The sound Sherlock makes is nowhere near decent, and if John had been a bit less drunk and somewhat more balanced, he might have worried that it stemmed from pain rather than arousal. But as it is he continues to move, and Sherlock’s hand falls from where it held John’s cock and instead finds his way to John’s thigh, grip bruisingly hard and stingingly painful.

It’s building up fast, the need for release. It’s close to the oblivion John came here for, and he chases it, fucking himself deep into a stranger’s throat, sliding one hand down from the shaved side of his head to feel that throat, feel himself move inside it. It’s almost like nothing hurts, right then, and he’s getting closer to--

 _Shit_.

Somewhere over the sound of his own pulse and the music that causes the ground to vibrate with the bass, John can hear the sound of heels on asphalt, of voices approaching.

“Shit,” he says out loud, tugging at Sherlock to let go of his cock, the rush of panic overriding the rush of an approaching orgasm.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow - actually quirks his eyebrow - at the panic in John’s voice, and it’s infuriating and almost enough to make John want to give him more to--

But instead he yanks Sherlock by the hair, because the boy is clearly a bloody exhibitionist and John really isn't. Sherlock struggles to stay there, in between John's legs, but John's position offers better balance and more strength. Sherlock's dragged back and as the kilt falls down again, John finds himself thankful that he’s wearing it.

A group of silently talking youths pass by on the street outside the alley, hardly seeing anything except the screens on their phones as they stumble towards the club. John lets out a breath and looks at Sherlock, who's looking sceptical rather than embarrassed, tracing one of the rips of his jeans with his finger, waiting impatiently for John to do something.

"We need to get out of here," John says, wondering if these will be the words that crushes this, erasing all chances of a temporary release from the inevitability of everything beautiful breaking around him.

But as he opens his hand, afraid to see that he's once again holding shattered bones, it's still whole. It, whatever it is. Because Sherlock clears his throat, gets up on thin, unsteady legs, and gives John a look and a nod. He lets John follow him through streets that glitter with rain water, into a building that Sherlock unlocks with a key he finds in a downspout. Inside the dim hallway that smells like overcooked stew and cat litter, John finds himself pressed up against the door, kissed hard and almost painfully before he's dragged down a wooden stair and through the thin plywood door that leads into the cellar of the apartment house. They pass through a laundry room where the dirty white paint is flaking from the grey concrete walls and the machines are silent but for an almost inaudible hum.

Crowding against him, Sherlock presses him through a narrow door frame, pushing him against the wall as he shuts the door behind them.

“After all this, I really hope you’re not too drunk to fuck me,” he breathes against John’s ear, licking the cartilage, his fingers pressing into the fabric at John’s hip.

The deep, ragged voice reaches John’s brain, where it’s instantly transformed into a nerve signal that connects directly to his groin. The brisk walk out in the freezing winter night had left his cock almost flaccid. Now, a surge of interest. A tongue pressed into his ear, and it’s not hot, not really, but it’s warm and wet and his wires must have been crossed, because it works.

“The shock of almost getting arrested for public indecency was enough to sober me up, thank you,” John says, aiming for a dry tone, but it all comes out breathy.

“Now you’re being daft. They were not going to call the cops, and if they did, we would have had plenty of time to leave the area. No, they’d either ignored us, or watched.”

“How is that any better?”

“We could have kept fucking.”

At the mention of _fucking_ , John twists his hands into the fabric of Sherlock’s t-shirt, unsteadily but firmly spinning them around until it’s Sherlock who has his back against the wall. Sherlock’s head barely manages to avoid the empty hook by the side of the door frame as he hits the vinyl wallpaper.

It’s a few minutes of tongues sliding against each other, of John exploring Sherlock’s mouth deeper and more insistent than he’s ever dared to do with a lover before and of Sherlock’s fingers unbuttoning John’s shirt, before it’s shrugged off and falls to the floor. Then it’s John, feeling the cold air against his back, breaking the kiss, looking around in the gloomy room, where the only light comes from a long, narrow window just a few inches below the ceiling, where the distant light of a street lamp seeps in. It illuminates the room just enough for John to make out the contours of it. A clothesline criss-crossing the room, an old mangle with a sheet hanging out halfway and two odd chairs at the corner.

Nothing like a love nest, but it’ll do for a fuck.

Sherlock’s still resting his back against the wall, breathing rapidly, his hands still kneading John’s arse through the kilt, but his eyes are closed, his head reclined as if waiting for John to make up his mind about continuing this.

John does.

“Do you have anything?” He asks, returning both hands and gaze to Sherlock, who opens his eyes.

Sherlock nods, patting the front pocket of his torn jeans. A glimmer of something that’s not quite a smile, then it’s tongues and bodies rutting against each other once again, slowly warming up the chilled air of the small room.

There are hands fumbling with jeans buttons, fingers dipping in under the waist of John’s kilt, and then there’s a quick pause during which the sheet is torn from the mangle, laid out on the floor and two bodies in various stages of intoxication collapse and collide on the sheet.

It will be over soon, just like everything is, but at the moment, John can’t find it in him to care about anything beyond touching, twisting, tearing, thrusting--

Sherlock is on top of him, legs on either side of John’s, and they’re grinding efficiently enough that this could be over in a matter of minutes if they keep at it. Somewhere between groping and sucking bruises, Sherlock’s t-shirt is pulled off and then there’s more messy kissing. It’s kissing without much finesse, very unlike the more technically skilled blowjob from before, more saliva, tongue and uncoordinated movements than seduction. It fits, somehow. It’s the kind of kissing that suits their current surroundings - provisional, half-finished.

The feeling of an erection and those hard hipbones rutting against his own cock with more and more intensity is what finally makes John grab Sherlock’s upper arms and efficiently roll them over, leaving Sherlock on his back and John kneeling over him.

Adjusting himself, John positions himself on his knees between Sherlock’s outstretched legs. Too-prominent ribs rise and deflate rapidly due to the fast breathing, the faint light reflecting on metal bullets of a nipple piercing and the pale skin is covered with goose bumps. Everything is still a bit blurry and the floor not quite steady yet, and perhaps his senses can’t be trusted fully at this point, but for a second John thinks that the boy on the floor looks almost… frail. But it’s a momentary notion, and the thought evaporates the instant John slides his hands up the faded, black denim, hooking his fingers inside pants and jeans and pulling down.

There’s fumbling and uncoordinated lifting of hips, there’s the vision of iliac crests and a fully erect cock, a bit shorter than John had expected given how tall Sherlock is, resting against a taunt stomach and there’s kicking of shoes and jerking too-tight jeans off as they get stuck around long feet.

The cold radiates from the concrete floor, and John ends up putting his own stockings on Sherlock's too cold feet while keeping the kilt on to keep some warmth for himself, kicking off his pants before entangling himself with Sherlock on the hard floor.

John’s mouth finds the pierced nipple, fascinated at the feeling of both metal and erect tissue under his tongue as Sherlock’s hands press his head even closer to it, and he groans and shifts beneath John.

Releasing the nipple, John gets up on his knees, fumbling almost blindly with his hand over the floor next to them, finally finding Sherlock’s jeans and the lube and condom in the front pocket. His hands are shaking, and his head’s still spinning, but after a few attempts he manages to rip the package open and pull the condom on, pushing the front of the kilt up to reach. His hands are still cold, but still the stroke of his own hand feels good enough to make him do it again, two times, three--

Getting the other package open, John coats his fingers, once again placing himself between Sherlock’s thighs. Their eyes meet, Sherlock’s face shadowed but his eyes reflecting a bit of light. John doesn’t want to look too closely, wants to push into Sherlock’s body and spend himself there, doesn’t want to know whom he does it to. It’s too much as it is, too much being surrounded by people and their needs and still not being able to fix it, still not being enough for them to stop--

Sherlock draws his knees up, exposing white stockinged shins and his arsehole as his knees press against his chest. His cock resting against his pelvis, surrounded by dark, untrimmed curls. For some reason, the sight of the untamed pubic hair makes him look younger, less like someone who does this regularly and more like someone who covers himself with rough looking clothing and metal bullets, eyeliner and worn boots to cover up something less rough, less studied and ragged. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. Because there’s a pressing need to come and Sherlock’s making impatient noises from the floor, and John will oblige, because that’s the whole point of this.

And as he slips his fingers down the still warm perineum, John finds that it’s easy to dismiss his thoughts. Sherlock hisses at the cold of the lube and John’s fingers, his body jerking slightly before he relaxes again. John lets his index finger circle the rim of the anus, his other hand on the back of Sherlock's thigh, steadying him. Slipping inside, he feels enveloped and warm at that one, single point of his body - the tip of his index finger indulging in the tight heat as the rest of him trembles from the cold.

As one finger is joined by one more, Sherlock begins to rock back against them, and it hits John that he maybe ought to have lessened the discomfort by stroking his cock or sucking him down. But Sherlock’s already breathing faster again, cock filling up where it had temporarily gone slightly softer. John searches and finally finds the bundle of tissue that causes Sherlock to let out more obscene sounds - sounds that he attempts to muffle with this arm as John strokes the prostate again.

He’s never fucked someone like this before. There’s always been a bed, a sofa, a shower… central heating and somewhat clean surfaces. He’s usually more sure of their names, of what they are working with or studying, or at least he’d known their friends. This is more carnal, less laughter, more about getting off than getting on.

Scissoring, thrusting, John works one last finger in. He hopes it’s enough, and it probably is, because there’s a “get on with it” hissed from the floor as Sherlock draws his knees up tighter.

John locates the half used package of lube, squeezing the rest of it out, coating his cock and using the sheet to dry off his hand.

It would be easier not doing this face to face, but the cold will be less pronounced the more their skin touch. It’s about such base things - hunger, warmth, lust. Life often is, but it’s not always so unmasked as it is in this now, where a rude, beautiful boy is left fingered open and shivering cold and urging John to just ‘fuck him already’.

Positioning himself, leaning over Sherlock with one hand to support himself against the floor and one hand lining himself up against the warm opening, John feels Sherlock’s hand moving slowly on the cock that’s pressed between them. Unrhythmic movements against his stomach, making him moan and hurry and--

He breaches in, fighting to keep himself from immediately pushing further. A gasp, Sherlock’s eyes shut, his own urge to press himself to the heat of Sherlock’s body. It’s too slow, but slowly Sherlock relaxes around him, and John advances bit by bit.

There are sounds from underneath him, little desperate, moaning, stifled sounds. There’s a pain in his knees from their position against the hard floor and there’s the feeling that he might erupt with the next breath, coming without even being fully inside yet. He’s no longer sure if it’s the alcohol or the arousal that’s causing the spinning sensation and he’s so very far from where he’d planned to be this night. Far from his childhood room and bad Christmas songs and the warmth of his parents’ house. The illusion of Christmas peace and eggnog and the smile on his grandmother’s face.

With one final push, he’s settled all the way in. Opening his eyes, he finds himself staring down at Sherlock’s throat, head tilted back, leaving it exposed. Tracing his tongue over the skin, feeling pulse and breathing and the back of Sherlock’s thighs against his stomach, John withdraws just an inch, then pushes back in. The feeling is overwhelming and far from enough, and he does it again, further this time, exhaling with a ridiculous sound as he thrusts.

Beneath, Sherlock winces slightly, his hand stuck between them and almost unable to stroke himself. John’s mouth leaves his neck, adjusting himself, searching for the right angle to hit the prostate with his thrusts. It’s not something he’s especially skilled at, having only done this three times before, but the muscles around him relax bit by bit and the hand that now grips  his upper arm tightens its hold.

With each slide, each thrust, the buzz of hormones and endorphins increases, making him warm for the first time since they left the club. Making him withdraw almost all the way before driving in again, thrilled by the sensation of how each push affects the whole of Sherlock’s body, not heavy enough to resist the impact, sliding slightly up the sheet with each thrust.

A bitten-off cry tells him when he’s hit the prostate. John wishes that Sherlock wouldn’t stifle the sounds, but he does, like it would be too revealing and to human to let them out. As an act of defiance, John makes no attempt to be the least bit quiet himself. And Sherlock tries to keep it in, but John is moving frantically now, chasing the orgasm that is just a hair’s breadth away.

The sound of skin slapping against skin and the high-pitched noises that escape in between stifled moans escalates, and it only takes ten more seconds before John is flooded by that one, singular sensation of release and contraction and enough. Desperate, shallow thrusting and fingers that have suddenly found curls to fist around and release.

As the pulsing slows down and finally stills, John’s breath is heaving and his fist unclenching and he’s buried deep inside Sherlock’s arsehole. He can’t open his eyes, but he can shift some of his weight from Sherlock’s chest, allowing Sherlock room to work his fist over his cock, movements that begin as rhythmic but grow frantic as the wet sounds get faster and more irregular.

It feels like relief, feeling warm semen hit his stomach and probably his kilt too, but he’s beyond giving a fuck about it. His mind is - if not blank - almost silent and he withdraws from the tightness of Sherlock’s body, slumping to his side, but then quickly sits up again as he feels just how freezing the floor is against sweaty skin.

He looks at Sherlock, come covering the hand that’s still holding his softening cock as if to protect his skin from getting semen on it. Eyes half open, looking at John then looking away, closing them, opening them again.

They end up drying themselves off on the rumpled, cold sheet and Sherlock peels John’s stockings off, not quite looking at John as he hands them over while John fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, shivering at the cold fabric.

Sherlock gets dressed first, not bothering to even lace up his boots, leaving them half open as he pulls the t-shirt on.

Perhaps they should say something, but John has no words, no words with any meaning, just thoughts about how to get back to his own flat and if he has money left for a cab.

“I trust you’ll not get lost on your way out?”

John looks up from the boot he’s putting on, sees the tall, pale boy standing by the door, his eyeliner now smudged out under his left eye, curls in disorder and face unreadable.

“Yeah, I… Yes.” John says, wondering if he should add something, but he doesn’t, and it’s alright, because he hadn’t expected this to be something to hold, had known that this was just a quick fuck for noise reduction and forgetting and getting off. That it was a substitute for a family Christmas or a hit of some street drug.

He didn’t break this. It was never something whole to begin with. And that’s something he can live with. Broken things are less fragile, damage already done and no blame falls on the person who drops an already torn book into a puddle of rainwater as he tries to catch the last bus home.

John gets up, walks over to where Sherlock is still standing at the door, his left hand on the handle. Without really thinking, and without risking anything - you can’t lose something that’s never was - he lets his fingers brush over a prominent cheekbone. He wants to do more, wants to press a brief kiss on that cheek, but Sherlock is not moving and John can’t reach without getting up on his toes, and there's only so far he'll go.

He lets his hand fall back, meets Sherlock’s eyes, then averts his gaze, taking a step back to give Sherlock room to leave.

And there is no blame, just the silence as the door is left half open behind Sherlock and the sound of his footsteps on the narrow staircase dies out.

There’s no noise left in John’s head as he get up on his feet, looking at the boot prints at the edge of the crumpled sheet and the door that sways slightly, revealing only a slice of dark corridor outside.

And then there's only silence. For the first time since Christmas began, it's quiet.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sincerely-chaos@tumblr)
> 
> (just in case you want to send me recs of stories I should read.)

**Author's Note:**

> So I was told that this might read as a really sad story. 
> 
> I agree in that this might not be quite so cheery (certainly less so than I initially planned it to be), but I think that part of what this story is about is that they're not ready for each other (or anyone else) at this given point.
> 
> If they get another chance, years later, things might turn out differently. Or not. Who knows? But for now, at least they got some noise reduction from one another.


End file.
